Forest World

by Felix Salten

  Babette nodded, wiping her eyes. “Yes—you’re right. He’s made a little world for himself here in the forest.”

  “It doesn’t seem so small to me,” Peter smiled. “Don’t forget, the sun and the stars are his friends too.”

  While they were talking, Martin the hunchback was sitting on a stool near the garden with his drawing board on his knees, trying to sketch the heath cocks from memory. The horses lazed around him. Now and then Devil would look over Martin’s shoulder or Witch would rest her long jaw on his arm. This made Martin happy, for to him it meant that his animal friends accepted him as he was and did not mind his ugliness. He reached back to caress the soft velvet of Witch’s nose. Lisa, however, avoided him. She stood looking at him from a distance.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Martin called to her. He took a handful of salt out of a pouch to lure her. But she stood still.

  Martin arose. “Why are you so shy?” He went toward her. She retreated on clumsy legs. He laughed softly. “So! Your condition. That’s why you’re nervous. Now I understand.”

  His soft voice had a soothing effect. Lisa stopped. He offered her the salt. She blew into his hand and licked the briny delicacy with her tongue.

  Devil and Witch ambled up and both whispered to Lisa, “Don’t be afraid of Him. He won’t do you any harm.”

  Martin’s free hand gently stroked Lisa’s forehead. “Be patient, good girl. You’ll soon have your calf.”

  As if she had understood every word and suddenly remembered her dread, Lisa made a frightened leap sidewise and trotted stiffly away. Martin looked after her, shaking his head and murmuring, “What’s the matter with her now?”

  It was just then that Manni came home from the forest. He caught sight of Martin and ran happily to him to rub his head against his chest.

  Martin scratched his long-eared friend’s throat. “Hello, old fellow. Where have you been?”

  Manni wished he could tell Martin his experiences. He looked with gentle sorrow into Martin’s eyes and received in return a kindly gaze in which too there was something of sadness.

  Martin gathered together his drawing board and pencils. “See you again, my friends,” he said. The horses and Manni went with him to the house door.

  Once the animals were alone, the horses showered the donkey with questions. “What was it like in the forest? What did you do there?”

  Manni didn’t answer.

  Devil neighed, “Answer me! We know only the wide roads where He rides. Answer us! How is it up there?”

  Manni jolted off stubbornly. Once he had dreamed of telling them his adventures but now when the opportunity came he grew obstinate. That was his funny way. The stallion and the mare overtook him quickly.

  “Behave!” the stallion admonished him. “Show some manners.”

  “I always do,” Manni said innocently.

  “You don’t! You’re ridiculous!”

  “Think so?” The donkey grinned.

  Witch pleaded, “At least tell us what you—”

  Manni interrupted her. “You know the forest. You’ve been up there often. Why ask me?”

  “Up there, up there!” said Devil heatedly. “We never go up there except when we have to carry Him.”

  “And He rides only in the wide clearings and on the few big roads,” Witch added.

  “And you,” said Devil, “probably cut right across?”

  “Of course,” Manni retorted. “I don’t do it down here in the garden any more than you do. But up there I cut right through the middle of the thicket.”

  “I knew it!” The stallion showed his burning curiosity. “Now tell us!”

  “Yes, tell us!” Witch urged.

  “What should I say?” The donkey spread his front legs and held his willful head cocked high. “Up there one’s a foreigner, and by no means welcome!”

  The stallion stamped. “Go on, go on!”

  “There’s nothing more!” Manni teased him.

  “Oh, there must be,” begged the mare. “Tell us!”

  The donkey gave in a little—just enough to tantalize. “There’s no trace of our safe and peaceful existence up there.”

  “No safety?” Devil was surprised.

  “No peace?” marveled Witch.

  Disgustedly Manni bared his teeth. “Not a trace of it! Some commit murder, others are murdered. I wouldn’t like to live up there.” He threw himself into the grass and rolled over. “It’s so good here. This is still the most beautiful place. Well, now I won’t say any more! Leave me alone. I want peace!”

  “Oh, please tell us what you saw,” implored Witch.

  Manni rolled over on his back, all four legs in the air, and grumbled lazily, “Later, maybe. Later . . . sometime . . .”

  * * *

  Martin could see barely more than three paces ahead, for darkness still shrouded the trees. But it was no longer night and not yet day.

  He liked this in-between time best. He sensed a wonderful mystery in this hour of vanishing night and wakening day. At such a time the turning of the globe seemed to him like the turning of fate, like a delivery from darkness and anxiety to happiness and courage.

  He crossed a small clearing. Giant oaks rustled, the shadow of their tops spreading wide. In the gloaming four slender birches stood out silvery and clear.

  Martin re-entered the forest on a narrow trail that snaked its way through the underbrush.

  Nearby stood a doe, her newborn kid beside her. She stiffened to attention, ears quivering. Her sharp hearing had caught Martin’s almost inaudible step. The kid listened too, its legs braced ready to leap away. The mother roe calmed her child. “Don’t be afraid. There’s no need to run away. It’s He! He never hurts us.”

  The oak trees began to talk among themselves in soft whispers.

  “Oh, times have been good since He has ruled here and while His father ruled before him. You young birches, you don’t remember how it was before father and son protected the forest.”

  A young birch lisped, “Protected the forest? How?”

  “What was there before?” another young one asked.

  The old oak answered, “Never a day passed that the thunder-stick did not resound. At times the Hes came in crowds. Roes, stags, hares fell over and died. Even squirrels were knocked off our branches. What madness and what horrible shouting! All the forest residents were terrified. The thunder-sticks roared. And there were not only the thunder-sticks. The Hes carried great teeth also and in winter bit into stalwart trees with them so that the trees fell over. We ourselves were afraid of being bitten and losing our lives.”

  The third birch inquired, “This He who’s here now—He does nothing harmful? Nothing at all?”

  “No!” the oaks chorused. “Neither His father who used to be here, nor He. Nothing—nothing bad!”

  “But He throws the thunder-stick,” a birch called out.

  “Only the older two-legged one does, the one with gray fur on his head,” whispered the ancient oak. “And then but rarely. Very rarely. Really only to help us.”

  The strongest oak made himself heard. “When a stag or a doe falls by that thunder-stick, it is because he is past his time, ill and rotten as a tree which must fall soon. It is kindness then.”

  Martin could hear only the soft morning rustle of the forest. He understood the language of the trees no more than he understood the speech of the animals. Yet he had an instinctive feeling of oneness with other forms of life. This happy feeling swelled his misshapen chest so that he drew in his breath lightly and freely.

  The growing light spread. The leaves and the sky took on a hue of delicate green.

  Martin climbed to his lookout platform built in the shadow of a birch tree at the edge of a large meadow. From there he could see the green arch of the treetops and a tremendous sky in which the morning star was twinkling its farewell.

  In the meadow three stags, with the horns still covered by their velvet, were grazing at ease. They strolled around in the
manner of great gentlemen, nibbling a bit here and there or merely looking off into space for moments at a time.

  Regretfully they glanced at a roe which they had scared into flight. “We wouldn’t have done anything to him,” said a stag whose horns had ten branches.

  The youngest, who had only six branches, said, “Certainly not.”

  Tambo added, “When have we ever done anything to one of these little fellows? They are relatives of ours. It’s painful to see them avoid us.”

  The first stag stretched out his head in thought. His horns lay almost flat on his back. “My father,” he recalled, “told me a story he heard from one of our forefathers. A long time ago a roebuck was speared by one of our ancient ancestors—in anger.”

  Tambo said, “During the mating season I too become angry at my own kind. At such times we all get angry.”

  “Even though they happen very seldom,” continued the first stag, “such acts of violence live in the memory of our children and their children. It is not surprising that smaller ones are frightened at the mere sight of us and flee because of our power. Who would dare fight with one of us?”

  “Do you feel a prickling in your crown as I do?” the six-pointer asked.

  “A little,” answered the ten-pointer.

  Tambo said, “My crown isn’t hard enough yet. But soon I’ll rub it against the tree trunks.”

  They wandered apart, each sauntering by himself. Tambo drifted toward the lookout, then stopped suddenly as he caught sight of Martin. After a few seconds he strolled quietly back to the other two and murmured, “Imagine! He is here!”

  “That’s nothing,” the ten-pointer said. “He comes here every day.”

  But the young six-pointer grew excited. “Where? Where is He? I’ve never seen Him!”

  The three stags stared upward at Martin. He found it the purest joy to have them watch him without fear.

  “Can you see Him?” asked the ten-pointer of the youngest stag.

  “Yes! He looks dreadful—dreadful!” The young deer stamped and nervously approached the platform. Curiosity made him bold, yet he was prepared for flight.

  “He’s not dreadful at all,” Tambo retorted. “I know Him. You must get used to Him.”

  “No,” whispered the six-pointer, “I couldn’t. I can’t bear that look of His!” And he leaped away into the thicket.

  “Young and stupid and inexperienced,” Tambo scoffed good-naturedly.

  “It’s time for us to go too,” the ten-pointer urged.

  “Well, let’s go then. It’s all right with me.”

  They moved away slowly, lifting their slender legs in proud mincing steps, nibbling here and there at the young shoots by the forest’s edge. Finally they vanished into the wall of brush.

  Martin watched their majestic departure with the keenest enjoyment. Then he turned his gaze over the green ocean of treetops toward the coming of the day.

  In the sky the light green was giving way to a pale lemon-yellow. The yellow grew deeper and deeper until it was shot through by tongues of pink which in turn became streamers of flame. Martin witnessed the display with delight. No matter how often he saw this climax, its effect upon him was never less. Instead, from year to year it entranced him ever more.

  * * *

  Old Peter was in the barn milking the cow.

  “Yes, Lisa. It won’t be long before you’re calving.”

  The brown cow turned her wide-browed head to him, a question in her large eyes.

  Peter said again, “Yes, Lisa, soon. Very soon now.”

  The cow lowed softly.

  “Now you can go out in the sun,” Peter said. “It’ll do you good.”

  Lisa moved off with her slow lumbering gait, stopping for a moment in the doorway. She managed a little leap over the doorsill and ambled off laboriously.

  The Persian tomcat looked with interest at Peter who was pouring some milk out of the pail into a saucer on the floor. “There you are, Shah,” Peter told him. “Your share.”

  The cat stepped up to the saucer with dignity. He sat down close to it and lapped daintily, with affectation but without greed.

  “It takes people who can admire spirit to appreciate a cat,” Peter thought. “That Shah is a free, wild creature. He doesn’t allow himself to be ordered around. He defends himself, and he gives his friendship only to those who deserve it.”

  Out of the wall trough Peter fetched a small piece of raw meat which he had prepared beforehand. In a low inviting tone he called, “Gentle guest, where are you?”

  From a dark corner up under the roof a great gray owl flew soundlessly down to perch on the partition dividing the stable. Though the clapping of her beak sounded threatening, her melancholy eyes were very soft. She took the little piece of meat cautiously.

  “Is it good?” Peter asked. He waited until the owl swallowed the morsel, then picked her up and held her like a baby. Gently he scratched the delicate breast feathers. She seemed to enjoy the caress.

  Peter thought how long it had been before the owl began to trust him and grew so tame that they could become friends. “A cat and an owl—” he said to himself; “they are both mysterious and both have dangerous enemies.” He patted the bird in his arms again. Then he released her and she flew back to her hidden corner. When he went out of the barn with the milk pail, the Persian cat followed him, found a place in the sun and stretched out to sleep.

  Chapter 5

  TAMBO HAD RUBBED THE VELVET off his antlers, as the wise stags did every year.

  He could not see how richly pearled they were, nor how their twelve points glistened like ivory. But he knew his crown was beautiful, and the knowledge filled him with pride and strength.

  Ever since his birth he had acted in obedience to his inner urge. He did not understand this whispering of instinct, but he obeyed it faithfully. It had guided him while he had still been with his mother, and also after he had left her and had ranged around alone, a young stag with only the beginnings of horns. During the mating seasons of several years, too, these inner whisperings had told him that he must hide humbly from the Kings, and not arouse their jealousy by wooing does who belonged to the great stags’ harems.

  Finally had come his courageous struggle for self-assertion. At first he had been defeated by other stags, though by no means shamefully. He had never lost his confidence in himself and had known that some day soon he would conquer, once and for all. No longer timid, he continued to put forth his claim to rule.

  In the next year, after a short but furious struggle, Tambo had wounded his opponent and put him to flight. And so the mighty warrior became the ruling stag. His boldly won position was not contested.

  Now Tambo walked alone.

  He came into the open only when darkness was complete and then only in out-of-the-way places. He grazed here and there, but never twice in succession in the same clearing or meadow. And he always sought the thicket before the first sign of dawn. It was a life he loved. He was not bored, for animals of the forest are never bored.

  Like all other stags, but more luxuriously, Tambo lived chiefly to take good care of himself, to gather choice food and build up his fine strength. In doing these things, he obeyed his whispering instinct. His gift of keen scent became more sensitive than ever, his hearing sharper, his caution a highly perfected sense.

  Now the frightened cries of the roe deer who sometimes crossed his path did not bother him at all. He ignored them and simply passed by, a true king of the forest. His slender legs firmly supported his full, taut torso with its sleek covering of red. From his neck hung a black mane, thickly matted with burrs and leaves picked up as he carelessly roamed through bush and thicket. Above towered the noble, high-crowned head with its bearing of reserved and majestic dignity. The calm dark eyes shone magnificently.

  His chief companions were the birds and the squirrel who came to him sometimes for a chat, for Tambo was often awake even during the day. In midnight darkness the hoot owl would frequently visit
him.

  “Tambo! Tambo!” called the hoot owl one night. “Do I disturb you?”

  “No, my little friend, I’m awake.”

  “Did I frighten you?”

  “No. I heard you fly in.”

  Touched on a point of pride, the hoot owl plunged his crooked beak into the feathers of his breast. “Impossible! I fly without a sound.”

  “I can hear you just the same. Or maybe I hear only the air that your wings stir up.”

  “Maybe that’s it.” The hoot owl was quickly mollified. “It’s a good thing the little fellows I hunt can’t hear as well as you do. Of course they’re usually asleep when I go after them. But even if they wake up, as some do, I’m on them before they know it. That’s the way to handle your prey.”

  “Prey . . .” Tambo’s slightly troubled gaze rested on the round featherball rocking on a branch. “Prey! It’s not easy for me to imagine what that means.”

  The hoot owl giggled softly. “Prey, my dear fellow, is something that writhes and squeaks—something that gives you pleasure and fills you up.”

  “I’m filled up by leaves and herbs and grasses. I never kill anyone.”

  “You’re foolish,” croaked the other. “You with your pronged crown, and with your strength and great size—who could hold against you? Think of all you could catch!”

  “I’m surrounded by plenty,” said Tambo placidly. “I’m never hungry and I wouldn’t care for such murderous ‘pleasures.’ ” He turned quietly away. “Good night.”

  “Foolish giant!” mocked the hoot owl, and floated off to the treetops. “All giants are silly.” He laughed to himself.

  Tambo only half heard these words and paid no attention to them. Noiselessly he moved through the brush, his step halting whenever he caught the tiniest sound.

  Suddenly he came to a stop. Another owl, the great gray owl, had just perched close to him.